“No, Dad… now you yell and then look at me.”
Chris said nothing.
Ethan turned to me.
“And Mom used to yell at referees.”
“Bad referees.”
“All referees.”
I almost laughed.
Then Ethan said, “That’s why I picked football.”
“No, Dad… now you yell and then look at me.”
Total silence hit the room.
Chris leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
Ethan’s face crumpled with frustration, as though we were making him explain something that should have been obvious.
“I wanted you guys to have fun with me.”
Ethan wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“I wanted you guys to have fun with me.”
“Everybody keeps acting like everything has to be special now just because I’m going to die.”
I put my phone facedown beside me.
He looked at it.
Then he whispered the sentence I would hear differently for the rest of my life.
“Sometimes I just want stuff to be stuff.”
“Everybody keeps acting like everything has to be special now just because I’m going to die.”
Chris stared at Ethan for several seconds.
Then he reached over and covered our son’s hand with his.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
Ethan shrugged, but his eyes stayed on the plastic field.
“I know you’re sad. I’m sad too.”
Chris nodded.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
“I know. But you’re still here, Captain” he said gently. “And I’ve been acting like my job is to watch every second instead of being in it with you.”
Ethan finally looked at him.
“So you’re admitting I’m right?”
Chris blinked.
“Absolutely not.”
Ethan grinned.
“Too late.”
“Absolutely not.”
A knock came at the door.
Leo stood outside.
Chris hesitated, then got up.
“How’s your son?” he asked.
Leo seemed surprised.
“Home. Driving his mother crazy.”
Chris smiled. “Good.”
That was all.
Just one piece of good news Chris finally allowed himself to hear.
“How’s your son?”
A few minutes later, I looked toward Ethan.
“You ready to go home, Captain?”
He glanced through the glass toward the field.
I caught myself.
“What do you want?”
Ethan considered it.
“Ten more minutes.”
Chris nodded. “Ten.”
We returned to our seats.
No cameras followed us.
“Ten more minutes.”
No players came over.
Nobody handed Ethan a signed football.
The game simply continued.
Exactly what he’d wanted.
Chris complained about a terrible play.
Ethan told him he had no idea what he was talking about.
Then a referee threw a flag.
“Oh, COME ON!” I shouted.
The game simply continued.
Ethan burst out laughing.
“Mom, you don’t even know what happened!”
“I know injustice when I see it.”
My hand automatically reached for my phone.
I stopped.
Ethan noticed.
“You’re not taking one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
I looked at him. “I’m watching.”
“You’re not taking one?”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded as though that answer made perfect sense.
Late in the fourth quarter, our team scored.
The stadium exploded.
Chris jumped up.
Ethan grabbed his father’s arm with one hand and mine with the other, laughing so hard he could barely shout.
Ethan grabbed his father’s arm with one hand and mine with the other,.
The tabletop football game slid sideways on his lap.
One tiny plastic player popped loose and landed beneath my seat.
I saw it.
For once, I didn’t immediately bend down to rescue it.
Ethan was laughing.
Chris was yelling.
I was yelling too.
And the game was still happening.
For once, I didn’t immediately bend down to rescue it.
Only when the cheering finally softened did Ethan glance down.
“Mom! My player!”
I reached beneath the seat and handed it back.
Ethan snapped it into place.
“Everybody plays,” he said.
Then my Captain turned toward the field again.
So did we.
“Mom! My player!”
